As I write this, it's still November 2, 2000. But tomorrow is November 3, 2000, and it's the day on which I mark the 26th anniversary of my arrival here in existence. For the last few years, my birthday hasn't had a lot of meaning, which I suppose must be fairly standard for these mid-20-something years.

But for whatever reason, this one's got a bit more weight to it. It might be the fact that this is the Beginning of the Second Twenty-Five Years, an arguable end of youth and irresponsibility. It might be the fact that I surrendered to the stereotypical twentysomething slacker life-choice and moved home with my mother a few months ago. It might be the fact that unemployment, being single, and being surrounded by friends with similar dilemmas and situations has all contributed to a big angst-ridden clusterfuck that I'm keeping in check through pure willpower and studious ignorance.

It might be the fact that I just don't feel things as strongly as I once did. My high school girlfriend asked me last week if I thought I could muster up the same kind of passion and romantic spirit I had eight years ago. I said I hoped someday, but not now. Not now.

Birthdays equal mortality after a certain age, I'm sure. I don't know if 26 is that age for me; I just know that I'm too young to be worried about nebulous bullshit like the future, my career path, my whiny existential dread, and the party my friends and my mom are throwing for me tomorrow. "Quit crying about it and do something." I want to do something worthwhile.